Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather is now Fifty Years Old—which is two years older than Marlon Brando was when he portrayed Don Corleone in the movie. It is, inarguably, a great film, even something of a landmark, now adorned with all the requisite ribbons of coveted official approval. (It checks in at twenty-one on the most recent Sight and Sound list of the greatest films ever made, rubbing shoulders with masterpieces by Godard and Antonioni; the American Film Institute ranks it as the third greatest film ever produced in the U.S.) The AFI is perhaps pushing it, and its instincts lean crowd-pleasing (that’s a knock), but these, and others, are well-deserved accolades. The Godfather is impeccably directed, beautifully and innovatively shot by seventies maestro Gordon Willis, and it features outstanding performances from a large ensemble cast, of which at least a dozen and perhaps a score are immaculate—most notably (but, again, in no way limited to) Al Pacino, as Michael, and the aforementioned Brando (in one of the last two virtuoso performances he gave us in a career that should have had a dozen more). And across three well-paced hours are innumerable moments to be treasured, such as a dark-eyed Brando at the summit meeting, and the bravura closing sequences. Our favorite is the moment (and accompanying camera move) that establishes Michael’s emergence as the head of the family, with his decision that Captain McCluskey (the always marvelous Sterling Hayden) must be assassinated—and that he, Michael, to this point an arms-length civilian from the family business, is the only one who can do it. From there, we were literally on the edge of our seats for the next half hour (and I do mean literally—I remember noticing it at the time, finally sitting back when Pacino exited the restaurant in the aftermath of that confrontation). Still more passages could be singled out for praise. It would be remiss not to acknowledge (as Coppola did as he accepted his Academy Award for best screenplay), the final scene between Brando and Pacino, written late in the day by seventies scribe and legendary script doctor Robert Towne. (Speaking of that scene, and I mean this sincerely, there is no better advice to pass on to one’s son as “the one who approaches you with the deal is the traitor.”)
But anybody can tell you these things—and that’s not why you so cheerfully bear the exorbitant Mid Century Cinema subscription fees. In that spirit, let us observe that although The Godfather is a “Great Movie” . . . it is not a great New Hollywood movie. Sure, like Bonnie and Clyde, its protagonists are murderous gangsters; yes, the movie enjoys gesturing at the gently subversive sensibility that organized crime is a natural extension of capitalism (and it is not by accident that the first line spoken in the movie is “I believe in America”); and certainly, and most seventies of all, Willis brings the darkness. Nevertheless, The Godfather is a classically structured film, and only requires a slight squint to see how it fits squarely in the tradition of the grand-old-days of the Studio System.
The story is comfortably generic – with the autumn of the patriarch the torch must be passed to a new generation – and the narrative is tight, linear, and leads to clearly-defined closure, if with a hint (but only a hint) of melancholy for those inclined to bemoan, with Vito, the alternate path his son’s life might have taken. And The Godfather is a conservative film—its touchstones are the virtues of loyalty; the conduct of behavior according to a code of honor (again telegraphed in that first scene, in which Don Corleone orders justice, not vengeance “what have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully” “Accept this justice as a gift on my daughter’s wedding day” “I want reliable people . . . we’re not murderers, despite what this undertaker says”); and, above all, family values (note the early admonishment that explicitly juxtaposes Sonny’s marital infidelity with his “speaking against the family” on an unrelated business matter). And let’s not forget, as many have observed, that The Godfather is a deeply dishonest film—on screen organized crime is largely whitewashed as a victimless enterprise; in particular, effort is taken to assure that the only people killed in the film are those that, from a moral perspective, had it coming. (Thus inviting that great Woody Allen line about intellectuals: “They’re like the mafia, they only kill their own.”)
Also very much Not New Hollywood are the performances—which, again, are justly lauded. But in disposition they reflect the expression of each character’s quickly established traits and their positioning within the movie’s structure and narrative imperatives, as opposed to internal conflicts within each character— even from steeped-in-the-method actors like Pacino and Brando. Compare for example, the nature of Pacino’s performance in The Godfather with his two roles that followed, Scarecrow and Serpico; Brando’s next film was Last Tango in Paris, in which the actor reached so far inside himself that legend holds he decided never to put himself through that traumatic experience again (which is consistent with the four year gap that ensued before his next film, and the often indifferent quarter century of rent-a-legend roles that followed).
Speaking of incongruities, it can also be observed that The Godfather was something of an anomaly for Coppola as well, very different in style from his steeped-in-New-Hollywood sensibilities, reflected in The Rain People and The Conversation. In fact, it is possible to envision The Godfather, Part II, in which Coppola then wielded much more structural power over the studio suits, as an implicit rebuke of its predecessor. Part II, seamless in its affiliation with and extension of the original, is nevertheless quite the New Hollywood movie, saddled with a despairing moral unraveling, and featuring much more introspective performative stylizations—surely it is no accident that Lee Strasberg, legendary teacher of “the Method” shows up to bring the film it’s greatest moment.
Which is nothing against The Godfather (as we like to stress, it’s not a competition), a Great Movie—indeed, perhaps the last masterpiece of the Old Hollywood.
